


Purge

by Dragonanzar



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, fanfic of a fanfic, itty bit of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonanzar/pseuds/Dragonanzar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fanwork of the epic fanfiction Like an Arrow through a Flock of Doves. What if Clint met Gretchenko outside the prison, after the battle of New York?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purge

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Like an Arrow Through a Flock of Doves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/551142) by [arsenicarcher (Arsenic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/arsenicarcher), [hoosierbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch). 



“Anyone here?” Clint called, moving swiftly around the pile of rubble. He called again and then stopped, listening carefully to see if he could hear any desperate voices emerging from the remnants of the building’s collapse. He straightened as he heard the scuff of footsteps and a burly figure rounded from the other side of the rubble. Clint frowned. There was something strangely familiar about that walk, wrapped up in a coat as the body was. 

The man, and even wrapped up, that was obvious, called something to someone behind his shoulder in the language which used to haunt Clint’s nightmares, though had now become more tolerable thanks to Nat. However, it wasn’t the language that caused Clint to take a faltering step back and hunch in on himself. No, it was the voice, the gruff tones which had been the cause of many a panic attack, even when they had become just memory. Gretchenko. 

“Well, well, well,” the nightmare figure said, his accented tones amused in that way which had always sent shivers running up and down Clint’s spine. “My bitch.” Gretchenko moved towards him slowly, deliberately stretching out the agonising anticipation. He was joined by two other figures, just as formidable as his own. Clint, his feet rooted in the ground, his height and estimated strength outmatched, was cast back in memory to the innumerable times he had been in the same situation, about to be the victim once more of violence from a group of bigger and stronger men. That submissive self he had been for all those years, simply to survive, once more taking over his mind without permission. There was no thought in his mind of running – he would just be caught sooner or later and the consequences were never worth it. Fighting back? He was the prison hole once again and this was his protector, his owner. Fighting back would be worse than useless. Even without the punishment Gretchenko would mete out, if he lost that protection, he’d be free game for any gangbanger to take pleasure in once more.

One of the other figures muttered something in Russian and both Gretchenko and the third figure laughed. 

“Gretchenko’s told us all about you,” that second man grunted out.

“Yeah,” the third figure replied. He then asked Gretchenko something in Russian. His protector replied in the same language. Clint, drawing on long-buried memories, could only make out the words ‘hole’, ‘mouth’, ‘cock’ and ‘fuck’. Starting to shake, he could guess that they were debating which part of him they wanted to use first. Finally, Gretchenko barked something at Clint, something he couldn’t recall and that made him start to sweat. What should he do? He didn’t understand! 

“Knees! Now!” Gretchenko snarled. Starting to breathe fast as his panic took over, his mouth dry and his muscles already wound like tight springs, Clint started to lower himself to his knees, his imagination already tormenting him with images of what Gretchenko might do to him for not immediately obeying the command. 

Something on his back rattled as he leant forwards and back in the process of kneeling. Clint frowned. There was something on his back? Other than his shirt? But he never had anything on his back – what did he own that could be there? Or had Gretchenko already put something on him? Or maybe Malyugin had done it earlier? He didn’t remember anything happening… Almost without intention, his hand crept behind him to feel it. 

Something cylindrical, made of an odd type of metal and with some strange indentations. He cast a quick glance at Gretchenko and, seeing the man was busy saying something to his friend and not looking at him, Clint reached over his shoulder in a gesture that felt as natural as breathing. Long and thin, the object had some sort of flexible material sticking out in three places. Almost forgetting about Gretchenko, he pulled the object out and looked at it. An arrow. 

An arrow! The daze which had been filling his head pulled back enough for him to remember where he was who he was. Clint was no longer the prison bitch, Gretchenko’s pet. He was Clint Barton, Hawkeye, a valued member of the Avengers and, most importantly, Phil’s boyfriend. Even thinking he might have allowed Gretchenko to touch him made him feel sick and the betrayal of his beloved, the one who had taught him how to enjoy life and sex once more. 

Leaping to his feet, he snapped his collapsible bow (a present from Tony, of course) from the side of his quiver and nocked the arrow in less time than it took for Gretchenko to look back at him.

“Slut!” the man barked. “ You’re gonna get it now!” Clint felt a snarl curl his lips and hate roil his stomach. This….thing, had been the cause of so much misery, so much pain and so many enduring scars. The glint of blue and gold in his hand only made him draw the arrow back further. Sure, his bionic implants worked well, but if this man hadn’t been in his life, they wouldn’t have been necessary. He let the arrow fly in reply, seeing it hit his target perfectly.

Gretchenko roared in pain as the sharp point was forced through his palm by the transferred kinetic energy of the top-quality bow. Before he could move, a second arrow went through his palm sending him to the floor where it buried itself and then two more nailed his feet to the ground. The other two men were forgotten as they ran away as quickly as they could. Clint stared into his tormentor’s eyes and saw fear, terror. Something in him shifted uneasily at that, but a much greater part of him erupted in satisfaction and a bloody pride. 

“No, Gretchenko,” Clint said, fighting to keep his voice at conversation level. He was in control now, and he would show that, as much as he wanted to shout and let his fists fly. If he lost control like that, Gretchenko would take it back: that was the kind of man he was. “No, I am no longer your slut, your bitch, your slave who would take anything from you in return for only one person hurting him. I am so much more!” Gretchenko spat and the globule of saliva and blood – he must have bitten his tongue in pain – hit Clint’s sleeveless vest. 

“You’ll always be my bitch,” the man growled. “You wear my collar and my name, and you always will!” Clint smirked and reached up to loosen his zip. He pulled the collar of his top open slightly, showing Gretchenko exactly what had been done to his ‘collar’. 

“Marked by those I love,” Clint said quietly. “And believe me,” he added “your name is just as replaced by the name of my lover.” Gretchenko growled, sounding like an animal.

“And does this lover of yours know how many times I fucked you? How many times I ripped you open with my cock, with my hands, with hammers and chisels and even that knife? Does he know how I used to choke you until your lips turned blue? Does he know how you would beg me for more?”

“I only ever begged you to stop, asshole,” Clint spat, but he knew that wasn’t true. Taking two steps back, he nocked another arrow onto the string, but then paused. No, that was too clean. He wanted to feel Gretchenko’s blood running over his hands, the hands he had crippled. He slipped the knife out of its ankle sheath and abruptly crouched next to Gretchenko’s head.

Putting his knife lightly against Gretchenko’s throat, he watched with a smirk as the Russian obviously fought he urge to swallow, sensing the sharpness of the knife. 

“What? No witty comments to say now?” Clint taunted, watching the frustrated rage flash through his old tormentor’s eyes. Both of them knew that any move Gretchenko made would lead to the knife pressing more firmly against his vulnerable arteries. Besides, with his feet and one hand pinned and Clint half-kneeling on the other arm, there wasn’t much Gretchenko could do without broadcasting his intentions loud and clear. Clint pressed a little more, enough to cut the skin slightly and send a drop of blood trickling down towards the ground. Clint started to increase the pressure further, but something made him hesitate.

Was he going to do this? Really do it? Kill a man in cold-blood for the first time? Sure, he’d killed plenty of creatures and injured numerous people. Perhaps he’d even indirectly killed people by the choices he had made, but he had never looked at a human target and aimed for a kill-shot. He didn’t know if he could do it. He didn’t know if he wanted to.   
But, this was Gretchenko! The man who had made his last few years in prison a living hell! This was the man who had warped his world view so much that he hadn’t been able to conceive of kindness for kindness’ sake for too long after his release. Admittedly, that hadn’t been done single-handedly by Gretchenko, but the rapist had played a big part. Sure, having a protector had made his experience marginally better, but only by a fraction. The Russian’s cruelty had been completely unnecessary. Look at Neal! Clint’s loyalty and obedience towards the man had held even after he had left prison, and Neal had never touched him with anything but kindness. Even a bit of rough sex wouldn’t have ruined that loyalty – in prison, he had known what he was for. Gretchenko had taken pleasure in his pain, pleasure in the punishments he thought up, pleasure in breaking Clint’s body and spirit. Resolved, Clint firmed his grasp and pushed further, making the blood well up faster. His hand shook.

“Clint.” That wasn’t Gretchenko. Knowing better than to take his attention from his enemy in front, Clint used his other senses to determine where the speaker was, as well as he could.

“Nat,” he replied after fixing her position somewhere behind him on his left. A warm hand touched his shoulder and he flinched slightly at the contact. 

“You don’t want to do this.” 

“Yes I fucking do! You don’t know what he did to me!”

“I can guess.” Her tone was neutral and Clint couldn’t read anything from it, but knowing Natasha, she probably could guess pretty accurately. Besides, he didn’t know how long she had been there. For all he knew, she could have heard all of Gretchenko’s vileness. However, her hand was still on his shoulder, so that was something. “You are not a murderer, Clint. This will break something in you, something that I, that Phil holds dear.”

“Everything else is broken! Why not this as well?” he tried to snarl, but it came out more as a hitched sob. To his embarrassment, he felt a prickling in his eyes. No. He would not cry. Not in front of this man who had taken so much from him. 

And that was when he made his decision. He didn’t debate what Nat had said. He knew killing, murder changed people. He had seen it happen in Barney, and he had seen the same coldness, the same fracture in agents who had fulfilled assassination missions. Even Phil sometimes got that lost look, that distance when he thought of the people he had killed in cold-blood. Clint knew he wouldn’t be an exception: killing in general gave him nightmares, even when it had been to save his own life or that of an innocent. 

He would be damned if this rapist who had already taken so much from him and Phil would take one more thing. He increased the pressure a moment, and then let it up, wiping his knife on Gretchenko’s clothing and then sliding it back into its sheath. He would clean it properly later. Clint slowly stood with one more sneer at the Russian who looked diminished now he had lost his nightmare power.

“You are nothing to me.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned to Natasha. “I never want to see him or hear his name again.” Wrenching his arrows from the man’s limbs by placing his foot on the flesh next to the shaft and yanking – eliciting screams which Clint didn’t bother to feel guilty for causing – Clint turned and walked off, not bothering to look back. 

He felt as though a weight had lifted, as though something deep within him had been freed from a knot he hadn’t even known existed. He was sure he would still have nightmares, but for now Clint walked towards the man who he loved and who he knew loved him back with a smile playing on his lips.

*****

Natasha looked down at Gretchenko with an icy blade of anger in her eyes. Abruptly, he tried to attack her by sweeping her legs out from under her. A flurry of movement resulted between the big man and the slighter woman. However, there was only one possible consequence. The man ended up on his stomach, his legs in a knot and his arms wrenched behind his back, Natasha pressing on his hand wounds. He would be screaming if he could breathe properly, but as it was, he could only wheeze and vomit. 

Natasha thought about it. She could commit him back to the system, getting a testimony from Clint and others to ensure he was locked away for life. However, Clint didn’t want to ever hear his name again, not that Natasha could blame him, and besides, men like Gretchenko thrived in the system. The death penalty had been abolished in New York since 2007, so unless he had committed a death-penalty-worthy crime in a state that still supported it, he would be looking at life in prison at best. At best for Clint, that was.   
No, doing it the legal way wouldn’t work. That was fine. However, that meant Steve and Coulson were out. Steve because of his obsession with justice and treating everyone innocent until proven guilty, and Coulson because Clint would never forgive her or, worse, himself if Gretchenko caused Phil to lose his job. That went for the rest of SHIELD, though Natasha knew a couple of agents who wouldn’t mind turning a blind eye. Bruce was out because as a doctor, he was too peaceful, and as Hulk he would cause too much of a scene. Thor….was possible, but Natasha didn’t know how much he had pieced together of Clint’s past, and Natasha respected Clint’s wish to keep it hidden. Technically, Natasha didn’t need anyone’s help, but she felt a bit selfish if she didn’t share with others who wanted to rip apart those people who had messed with Clint so badly.  
Natasha’s lips curled in a blood-thirsty smile. She knew the perfect person. Someone who had already shown willingness to take bloody revenge and not care about the consequences. Someone who had already wreaked vengeance on Clint’s behalf by painstakingly tracking down some of Clint’s tormentors from information he, Phil and Neal had given. 

Giving Gretchenko’s arm one more wrench and squeezing his hand for good measure, Natasha’s smirk widened at the pained groan. She reached with her free hand into her pocket and drew out her StarkPhone. Pressing speed-dial 4, she waited until the person picked up.

“Itty-bitty Spider?”

“Tony. I invite you to a party.”

“What?” 

“A party with someone our dear Hawkeye knows…..intimately. An old prison buddy of his.” There was silence for a moment. 

“I’ll be there before you’ve blinked,” Tony replied finally, his tone eager. He rang off. Natasha closed the phone and slid it into her pocket again. Leaning down, she put her lips near the other Russian’s ear. In their shared native tongue she purred:

“We’re going to have so much…..fun.”


End file.
